Carl Michael Bellman

Epistle No. 39 - Poem by Carl Michael Bellman

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Storm and wave their tumult cease. See, the heav'nly galaxies, Fainter, even dimmer Is their golden glimmer As the morning Softly dawning Of the sun's wan ray gives warning. Asp and maple sighing, Stream and marsh replying, Woodcock buzzes, Peasant passes Round his filly's neck her harness. Now in our stove When it is lit, Grasses and twigs Crackle and spit, Soon our porridge will be boiling. Now with tousled brow Cottager, I trow, Seeks to light his pipe, And out in the field Leaning on a stone, Dalesman lifts anew his spade.